Sweet spring! full of sweet days and roses;
A box where sweets compacted lie;

Thy music shows ye have your closes;
And all must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul,

Like seasoned timber, never gives;

But, though the whole world turn to coal,

Then chiefly lives.

George Herbert, 1593-1632.

Know then this truth (enough for man to know), "Virtue alone is happiness below."

The only point where human bliss stands still,
And tastes the good, without the fall to ill;
Where only merit constant pay receives,
Is blest in what it takes, and what it gives;
The joy unequalled, if its end it gain,
And if it lose, attended with no pain :
Without satiety, though e'er so blest,
And but more relished as the more distressed :
The broadest mirth unfeeling folly wears,

Less pleasing far than virtue's very tears;

Good, from each object, from each place acquired,

For ever exercised, yet never tired;

Never elated while one man's oppressed;

Never dejected while another's blest;

And where no wants, no wishes can remain,

Since but to wish more virtue, is to gain.-Pope.

Mark well how dangerous

It is to virtue, near the verge of baseness.

A generous mind should never dare to quit
Virtue's firm hold :-that gone,—

That sacred anchor once parted from,

There is no stop.-Down drives the desperate bark Before the foaming torrent, breaks on a rock,

And sinks to rise no more.

Village Life.

Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,

Where health and plenty cheered the labouring swain;
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,

And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed;
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,

Seats of my youth, when every sport could please ;
How often have I loitered o'er thy green,

Where humble happiness endeared each scene!
How often have I paused on every charm!

The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm;
The never-failing brook, the busy mill,

The decent church that topped the neighbouring hill;
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,
For talking age and whispering lovers made!
How often have I blessed the coming day,
When toil remitting lent its turn to play!
And all the village train, from labour free,
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree ;
While many a pastime circled in the shade,
The young contending as the old surveyed;
And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground,
And sleights of art and feats of strength went round,
And still, as each repeated pleasure tired,
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired:
The dancing pair that simply sought renown
By holding out to tire each other down;
The swain, mistrustless of his smutted face,
While secret laughter tittered round the place;

The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love,

The matron's glance that would those looks reprove

These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like these, With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please.

Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening's close,

Up yonder hill the village murmur rose ;

There as I passed, with careless steps and slow,
The mingling notes came softened from below;

U

The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung,
The sober herd that lowed to meet their young;
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool,

The playful children just let loose from school;
The watchdog's voice that bayed the whispering wind,
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind;
These all in sweet confusion sought the shade,

And filled each pause the nightingale had made.

Virtue.

Goldsmith.

Virtue, I need not tell, when proved and full
Matured, inclines us up to God and heaven,
By law of sweet compulsion strong and sure;
As gravitation to the larger orb

The less attracts, through matter's whole domain.
Virtue in me was ripe. I speak not this

In boast; for what I am to God I owe,
Entirely owe, and of myself am nought.—Pollok.

Virtue and Vice.

Virtue is not a mushroom that springeth up of itself in one night, when we are asleep or regard it not; but a delicate plant, that groweth slowly and tenderly, needing much pains to cultivate it, much care to guard it, much time to mature it. Neither is vice a spirit that will be conjured away with a charm, slain by a single blow, or despatched by one stab. Who, then, will be so foolish as to leave the eradicating of vice, and the planting of virtue into its place, to a few years or weeks? Yet he who procrastinates his repentance and amendment, grossly does so; with his eyes open, he abridges the time allotted for the longest and most important work he has to perform : he is a fool.Barrow.

Would we attain the happiest state
That is design'd us here;

No joy a rapture must create,
No grief beget despair :

No injury fierce anger raise,
No honour tempt to pride :
No vain desires of empty praise
Must in the soul abide :

No charms of youth or beauty move
The constant, settled breast:
Who leaves a passage wild to love,
Shall let in all the rest.

In such a heart soft peace will live,
Where none of these abound;

The greatest blessing Heaven does give,
Or can on earth be found.

Cows.

Countess of Winchelsea.

Vows-short-lived as the lightning's flash

That darts along the skies,

Wash'd though they be in crystal tears,

And stamp'd with melting sighs-
Are but the bloom of passion's flowers,
That wither and decay,

Before the morning sun can chase
The starry train away.

True love requires no plighted troth
To keep it bright and pure;

It has a life within itself,

And in its truth is sure.

False lovers vow-they think that none

Believe the things they say

And break their moonlight vows before

The dawning of the day.

Waiting.

They also serve who only stand and wait.-Milton.

Water Fowl.

I saw on the breast of a beautiful river,

That reflected the green of the hill—

While scarce to the sunbeam it gave a slight quiver,
For the breath of the morning was still-

A bird, with a breast than the drifted snow whiter,
Serenely and silently glide ;

And give to the waters an image still brighter-
Seeming Peace upon Pleasure's fair tide.
Still on, like the solitude's spirit it glided,
Till a stranger intruding too near,
Uprising, its wings the light ether divided,
Far away from all shadow of fear!
Oh, happy the soul that reposes so lightly
On the bosom of temporal things;

At danger's approach, it can soar away brightly
Above on ethereal wings.-J. H. Miflin.

Walking.

Walking is a delightful and healthful exercise; not your street-sauntering all day, which is fatiguing and pernicious, but a smart walk in the morning before breakfast; it invigorates and braces the system for the day. The morning air! it is most exhilarating and vivifying! There are sensations created by exercise in the open air between dawn and sunrise, particularly in the spring season, which can be created in no other way. The custom of young ladies walking in the morning is gaining ground. When we meet one of these fair early risers and exercisers, we set her down -a family of healthful children-bloom at fifty, and life at eighty. This is a sort of street yarn, the spinning of which should be encouraged; and which will go to compose a web of life, durable in fabric, and beautiful in hue beyond all